


Misplaced Devotion

by vargrimar



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Flirting, Bad Jokes, Banter, Companionable Snark, Cuddling, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Break Up, Rhys is Handsome Jack's Personal Assistant, Sexual Tension, Shh don't tell, Trust, Trust Issues, Two halves of a whole idiot, Vulnerability, a fantisised blow job appears for like one paragraph, between rhys and whoever, comedy as a coping mechanism, jack has a lot of feelings and doesn't know what to do with them, jack is rhys's emotional support bastard, jack voice: ill-timed boners, no one is emotionally intelligent here, pour one out for the jokes jack couldn't manage, rhys has questionable taste in multiple senses of the word, rhys is also jack's personal corporate hacker-spy, the things jack does for [redacted]
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:35:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26663791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vargrimar/pseuds/vargrimar
Summary: “Listen, babe, I know I’m the highlight of your day,” Jack says quietly, “but if you wanted me to be the highlight of your night, too, all you had to do was ask.”Or: in which there are better things to want, and it’s not about Jack . . . until it is.
Relationships: Handsome Jack/Rhys (Borderlands)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 180





	Misplaced Devotion

**Author's Note:**

> i give my undying gratitude to the following:  
> 1) my very dear friend [miss_slothrop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_slothrop) who is a saint and helped get me unstuck on not one occasion, but two  
> 2) [caffeinated_owlbear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffeinated_Owlbear/) who is so incredibly kind and paved the way for final polish  
> 3) the lovely folks on the rhackie discord who dealt with my annoying detail questions  
> 4) the dear hunter who continues to forever feed my font of inspiration
> 
>  _so, come on_  
>  _you’re never gonna need him_  
>  _that’s why[you’re in my room tonight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jYFigzrXRFU)_ . . .

The alert sends Jack bolting out of bed with a pistol in hand.

Adrenaline keens through his blood as he stalks out into the cold marble corridor. Gold and black gleam gorgeous and liquid in the dimmed warmth bleeding out from alternating sconces; he steps lightly in their pall, pours past blotted paintings and sharp-cut logos and too tall bookcases and curved blocks of scintillating statuary. Panel to panel, wall to wall, embedded displays pulse to life under his fingerprints: systems online, exits locked, target stationary, turrets primed.

Instead of a covert operative or a competitor’s corporate spy lying in wait somewhere in the open living room, he finds Rhys.

Rhys sits in the corner of the inky L-shaped sofa, long legs folded, pyjamas rumpled, little H’s stippling his striped socks. He leans against the cushions, eyes fixed to the grand screen upon the wall as it murmurs through an episode of some dumb reality show Jack has only seen in passing. Rhys’s hair is mussed, unkempt, free of product; it’s long, falling over his eyes and ears, soft and brown and slightly curled at the ends.

That customary countenance of prim pride or awkward panic is nowhere to be found. Instead, sombre exhaustion sleeps in his angles, his edges, clawing him down and haggard. Red limns his half-lidded eyes.

Drawing a sobering breath, Jack wills the tension to ease. He goes to reholster the Vision, but—well, he just bounded out of bed. No holster. Also, no pants. He considers shoving it in his underwear (at least twelve different _is that a gun in your pocket_ jokes dart through his head), but he thinks better of it and simply lets his hand drop to his side, casual and tendon-taut no longer.

“Listen, babe, I know I’m the highlight of your day,” Jack says quietly, “but if you wanted me to be the highlight of your night, too, all you had to do was ask.”

Rhys jolts for a moment, startled, and his gaze lands on Jack with all the force of a battering ram.

“Oh,” Rhys breathes, just as quiet. “Sorry. I, uh—I didn’t mean to wake you up.” His mouth slants; annoyed realisation. “Oh my god. The damn alarm went off, didn’t it?”

“Yep, sure did,” says Jack, flashing his most earnest grin. “Forgot all about it, huh?”

“Yeah.” Rhys sighs and scrubs his face. “God, I’m really sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Eh, don’t worry about it. I’ve had way worse wake-up calls. Trust me, this doesn’t even make the top fifty.” Jack pads over to the sofa, sets the Vision on a nearby cushion as he sinks down next to Rhys. “Sooo, to what do I owe the pleasure of this little nighttime visit? And don’t say ‘nothing’, because this right here?” Jack sweeps a hand at Rhys’s face, pyjamas, socks. “Definitely not nothing.”

Rhys casts him a wan smile. “Would you airlock me if I said ‘something’ instead?”

“No, but you’d be on thin frickin’ ice.”

A soft snicker. “Okay. Well, what about ‘bad breakup’?”

Jack takes in Rhys’s sullen appearance: shoulders close, legs crossed, hands tense and rigid curls. The cheery sky-blue sunshine of Rhys’s sleep tee and pyjama bottoms contrasts the furrow of his forehead, the set of his jaw. Forced humour moulds the slight curve of his lips.

Ah, Jack thinks. That explains a lot.

“Nah, you’d live on to see another day,” he replies. “Hell, maybe two. I’m nice like that.”

“Really? You sure you don’t wanna end my misery? ‘Cause this is, uh. Kind of a low point for me.” Rhys laughs, but it isn’t his normal dorky laugh; it’s self-deprecating, subdued. “I mean, come on. Whose first reaction is to drop in on their boss in the middle of the night after something like this?”

“Yours, apparently,” says Jack.

Rhys pins him with a sidelong glance. The overhead lights are dimmed and the starlight is gentle from where it spills in through the long expanse of open space stretching the adjacent wall, but that damp sheen still catches, still glistens, still works down in drying tracks.

Jack used to be good at this, once upon a time.

It’s just . . . been a while.

“But hey, look, that’s not a bad thing,” Jack hastily amends, leaning over to sling an arm around Rhys’s shoulders. “I mean, of course you’re gonna come see me. I’m practically the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Got you this sweet job, some amazing digs, hooked you up with all these awesome connections. It only makes sense, right? Who else are you gonna come crying to when things get bad?”

“Uh, Vaughn? My best friend?”

“Oh.” Jack frowns. “Right. Nerdy little buff dude. Forgot about him.”

“S’okay,” says Rhys, drying his eyes with the heel of his palm. “He probably would’ve declared this some kind of bro night if he hadn’t been dead to the world. Accounting’s got that fiscal year-end thing going on, so everyone’s scrambling like something murdery got loose from Research and Development. He came home super late. Like, midnight or something. Instantly passed out. I don’t blame him.”

“Figures,” says Jack. “Well, don’t you worry, pumpkin. Handsome Jack is here and ready to pick up short-stack’s slack. So! What’s your poison, huh? Booze? Drugs? Both? ‘Cause believe me, I can get you _so_ much of both. Just say the word and we’ll get you so friggin’ toasted you’ll totally forget all about, uh . . . whoever.” He arches an eyebrow at Rhys. “Whoever?”

“Yeah. Whoever.” Rhys adjusts his legs, leans into Jack’s side. He rests his head on Jack’s left shoulder, his cheek warm against bare, scarred skin. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Damn right it doesn’t,” says Jack.

And it doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. It’s over and done with, all in the past, water under the bridge, yada yada yada.

But that doesn’t seem to stop the sudden and profound urge to track down _whoever_ from inundating Jack’s every passing thought like some kind of swelling, crashing, roiling flood. Jack owns this station; he could hack Rhys’s personal communications, peruse countless Hyperion personnel files, send his loyal guardsmen to play a little game of fetch. They could haul _whoever_ from their assuredly sad little hole in the wall and drop them off in the Species Research side of Research and Development, leaving them there to fend for themself in the biomes amongst Pandora’s indigenous (and viciously unforgiving) wildlife until they wound up piecemeal in some sated stalker’s viscera.

Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good. Real good. Satisfying. Some people are just shit human beings who need a little help fulfilling their equally shit destiny. Let no one say Handsome Jack doesn’t support his employees.

He’d record it, too, of course. You just have to when it comes to stuff like that, you know? Posterity is important.

So is precedent.

“All right. C’mon, cupcake. Poison,” he prompts with a cajoling pat to Rhys’s arm. “Whaddaya say to some good old-fashioned liquor, eh? Start you out nice and slow. It’s about two, right? Two-ish? Two thirty? Plenty of time to get you all good and mellow. We’ll get a drink or two in ya and you’ll be a hazy feel-good Rhys-shaped lump in no time.”

“Listen, Jack, I appreciate the offer. I really do. It’s super tempting, and—man, you have no idea how much I’d love to take you up on it right now. But I can’t. At least not tonight.” Rhys breathes out a weary sigh. “There’s no way in hell I’d ever make it to work on time.”

Jack can’t help but chuckle. “Really? That’s what you’re worried about? You’re gonna let something like that stop you?”

“Uh, yeah? I have a pretty important job, you know. Handsome Jack’s schedule isn’t going to manage itself. Plus, you know how he is,” Rhys adds, a shadow of amusement slinking in. “He’s the kind of guy who’ll space someone for being two seconds late to a meeting. I’m not sure I want to know what happens when two seconds turns into two hours.”

“Impertinent little prick.” Jack reaches over to flick Rhys’s temple with his free hand.

But Rhys grins and bats him away before he can land a hit, and that’s—that’s good, Jack decides. That’s better. That’s much more Rhys.

“So, what, does this mean you want a day off or something?” Jack asks, settling back into the cushion. “‘Cause between you and me, that could probably be arranged. I dunno, though. Management can be finicky. I mean, it’s not like your boss is literally sitting right next to you or anything.”

Rhys elbows Jack in the ribs. “Shut up,” he says, though amusement dulls the bite.

“Hey, I’m just saying. It’s not like you need to lie to whatever useless jerkoff in middle management and say you’re sick or something, y’know? You don’t need to submit any requests, don’t need to hit up HR. Screw the whole ‘proper channels’ bullshit. The final say’s through me.”

“I know it is.”

“Yeah? Then what’s the problem?”

“Work just . . . keeps me busy, I guess.” Melancholy clings to the syllables like a victim of static charge. “It’s something to focus on. Can’t dwell too much when you constantly have a butt-load of stuff demanding your attention. There’s people to call, meetings to schedule, projects to follow up on. And if I take the day off, all of that’ll be gone, and then everything else will be . . . there. It’s just—it’s a lot of free time, you know? And I’m not sure I want to deal with that.”

“All right,” Jack allows, because he knows that feeling, and as much as he tries to smother that familiar unpleasantness into submission, it always resurfaces in desperate, heaving gasps when work makes itself scarce. “Well, what do you want, then? You gotta give me something to go on here, babe. I’m awesome, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not a mind reader.”

Rhys doesn’t answer for a long moment. He works his jaw in thought, stares at the television screen and its fussing house-spouses. He taps meaningless rhythms on his thigh with cybernetic fingers; the metal is warm with body heat, tucked firmly against Jack’s left side.

Jack knows every intricate part of that little beauty from alloys to chipsets to firmware. He can take it apart piece by piece until its components stretch the living room floor in an unfurled cadaver of inert circuitry, and from there he can glove his hands in its electric innards and reassemble them in perfect working order, sleek and gleaming-pristine like it had never been touched. He knows every sensor, every panel, every wire, every connection, every feature, every capability, and yet—

And yet he still wants to take Rhys’s hand. He wants to open Rhys’s palm, splay his fingers, test his wrist, his joints, his range of motion. He wants to see how smoothly his arm articulates, how seamlessly it responds. He wants proof that it still serves Rhys well.

And that’s just—

It’s stupid. It’s so supremely, insanely stupid. It’s a weird, _stupid_ compulsion with zero point. What good would it do? There are way, way better things to want.

Like a shot, for instance. Or a cigarette. Or some sushi. Or another Vault key.

Like an even bigger corporate presence. Or like competent peons. Like a reliable right-hand man. 

Like . . . genuine loyalty. Devotion.

Like—

“Ice cream?”

Bewildered, Jack cranes back and regards Rhys with an incredulous frown. “Seriously? I have access to hundreds—and I’m not exaggerating here; _hundreds_ —of substances that can make you forget your own name or have you feeling like you’ve achieved total frickin’ nirvana, and you’re telling me you want _ice cream_?”

“Yeah? Why, is that not doable?” Rhys’s mouth slides into an attractive smirk, one eyebrow raised, and—yeah, there we go. There he is. There’s his Rhysie. “If Handsome Jack has access to everything except hundreds of ice cream flavours, I’m gonna be—”

“Ohhh my god. _Yes_ , I have access to ice cream, you giant friggin’ _dweeb_ ,” Jack groans. “God, how are you like this? Were you dropped on your head as a kid or something? Did they cross a few wires when they crammed that hard drive into your little breadbox? I swear, sometimes it’s like you’re purposefully trying to piss me off.”

“You know I have better ways of doing that,” says Rhys, smirk growing all the wider.

“Yeah, I know you do. Dick.” Jack ignores the staccato stutter-stop in his chest and reaches over to poke Rhys firmly between the eyes.

And Rhys doesn’t try to dodge, though Jack gives him ample time. Rhys squints with the smallest flinch like he’s expecting more, but when Jack presses his finger into the gentle dip of Rhys’s nose and gives it an over-the-top push, Rhys rolls with it, letting his head loll over Jack’s shoulder and back again. Afterward, his lips curve into this exasperated yet pleased little smile, like this is something he’s used to (and he is), like it’s something he privately enjoys despite himself (and he might).

It’s cute.

Jack clears his throat and promptly withdraws his hand, bringing it into a tight fist atop his thigh.

“All right, so,” he says, carefully cavalier, “ice cream. What weird-ass flavour do you want? And you can’t tell me it’s not a weird-ass flavour because you’re the abomination who keeps ordering all those horrendous pizza topping combos. I’m about ninety-nine point nine percent sure your taste buds have either been burned clean off so you can’t taste dick or they’ve mutated into some kind of, I dunno, super taste buds or something where everything tastes like ridiculously good sex.”

“Hey, don’t you go criticising my taste buds. I’m not the only one who likes drake fruit pineapple pizza, you know. It’s a common thing. People eat it all the time. It wouldn’t be an option if people didn’t actually eat it. And just for the record,” Rhys adds, levelling Jack with a particularly smug sneer, “I _have_ tasted dick, and I’m happy to report it tastes perfectly fine.”

Something in Jack short-circuits. Everything freezes up a little too tightly, muscles and tendons and thoughts alike, and then the far, _far_ too vivid image of Rhys’s face plants itself right at the front of Jack’s brain: cheeks flushed, eyes glazed, mouth open, lips slick, the head of Jack’s cock resting on the warm, soft pink of his tongue. The image shifts; armed with a salacious stare, Rhys takes Jack inch by devastating inch until the hot, teasing wet of his mouth envelops him completely. Rhys’s eyes flutter shut in pleasure, and then he hums out a low moan that Jack can _feel_ , breathy and wanting and muffled around his—

Jesus fucking Christ.

Jack isn’t wearing anything other than a black pair of boxer-briefs—because, well, there really isn’t much time to think about trivial things like clothes when a potential assassin has just entered your goddamn penthouse—but now he wishes he’d at least had the forethought to throw on some sweatpants or a long tee-shirt or _something_ to hide how his cock is currently thickening against his thigh like he’s some kind of horny fucking teenager.

 _Down_ , boy, Jack thinks dazedly. The guy’s going through a breakup, for god’s sake.

It then seems to dawn on Rhys, albeit belatedly, that what just came barrelling out of his mouth could very well be considered highly inappropriate in such esteemed company. Alarm sets in with surprising haste; his eyes widen as a visible spread of colour claims his cheeks and threatens to extend its reign to the tips of his ears, his tattooed throat, the dips of his pronounced, azure-flanked collarbones.

“Oh my god,” Rhys breathes, low and hoarse, and he cautiously pries himself from Jack’s shoulder like he expects violent retaliation. “I didn’t, uh . . . I really shouldn’t have . . . _Wow_ , hey, can we pretend that didn’t happen? Let’s, uh—let’s pretend that didn’t happen. What I said was normal, all right? It was normal. Completely normal, totally forgettable. Nothing—nothing personal. Okay? Okay. Cool. Anyway. Wow, yeah, ice cream flavours! How about, uh—” Rhys pauses for a frantic moment, body rigid beside Jack’s. “How about chocolate dill pickle?”

Jack stares, dumbstruck. He’d like to say that such an absolutely absurd excuse for a flavour helps curb his dick’s sudden and vehement interest (god, if this were happening at literally any other time, he’d be howling on his back with his sides in stitches), but unfortunately for all parties involved, that is not the case.

“You’re kidding,” Jack deadpans, desperate in a very bizarre combination of ways he would really rather not examine. “Please tell me you’re kidding. I want—no, I _need_ to know you’re kidding right now. You _are_ kidding, right?”

The colour in Rhys’s face does not abate in the slightest. “No . . . ?”

“Oh my god.” Jack shuts his eyes (looking at Rhys is _not helping_ ) and pinches the bridge of his nose, surreptitiously crossing one leg over the other. “You are really something else. What the hell kind of flavour is that, huh? Those two flavour profiles don’t—they don’t even make sense! Like, I can _kind_ of get the texture part if we’re talking actual food, ‘cause, y’know, sweet and crunchy combo, not bad, but we’re not. We’re talking . . . I don’t know. Added artificial flavouring. To ice cream of all things. Which is just—seriously, who even comes up with this crap?”

Rhys huffs. “Not everyone has vanilla tastes, Jack.” A beat of heavy silence, and then: “Man, I really need to stop talking.”

“Yeah, you really do,” says Jack, voice hedging the fine line of exasperation. “I am missing _so_ many prime comedic opportunities here because I was just unwillingly subjected to the unknowable knowledge that chocolate dill—god, this hurts to say—chocolate dill pickle ice cream exists. And not only that, apparently it’s your go-to?” He opens his eyes, chances a glance in Rhys’s direction. “Clearly I underestimated your already extremely questionable tastes.”

“You know, it’s funny how the one currently lecturing me on questionable tastes is the guy who unironically loves gold,” says Rhys, leaning back into the very corner of the sofa, and—Christ, that distinct flush looks even better when he’s found his swagger. “Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. I mean, you have to be aware on _some_ level that it’s tacky, right? Because, uh. In case you aren’t?” Jack’s eyes gravitate to the dark blue designs wreathing up Rhys’s left arm as he crosses them both. “Pretty tacky.”

Common sense insists that Jack tell Rhys to get bent because he’s literally Rhys’s boss and Rhys just insulted a decent chunk of décor in the very impressive penthouse he currently happens to be a guest in thanks to Jack’s unending benevolence.

Impulse implores Jack to surge forward and pin both of Rhys’s wrists back against the cushions because he has all of zero business being this stupidly hot over something so fucking dumb and Jack really, _really_ wants to see just how far down that blush can go.

Ever the savvy negotiator, Jack wrangles both and splits them right down the middle.

“Hey, you know what?” he asks, overly amiable, brightly polite, leaning in with pronounced slowness; a predator. “I changed my mind about the airlock comment from earlier. It’s a little late, but—yeah, I think we’re just gonna go ahead and take care of that right now. C’mon, c’mere, let me just—”

“Jack!” Rhys shouts, swerving away from Jack’s open hand, but he laughs, deep and warm in his chest, a heavy yet lighthearted roll that somehow somersaults its way right between Jack’s ribs.

And . . . yeah, Jack thinks. That’s him. That’s Rhys. The goofy-ass leggy guy with the equally goofy-ass grin twisting a whole cushion away with his robo-fist out (he remembered this time!) like he’s going to clock Jack upside the head—that’s Rhys.

God. Sad eyes and a sniffly nose don’t look nearly as good on that pretty face.

“Wait. Were you being serious?” As if bludgeoned by realisation, Rhys freezes in place, robo-fist wilting into half-curled fingers. He monitors Jack with cautious unease. “I, uh . . . Well, it’s kind of getting to the point where I honestly can’t tell anymore.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Jack groans, heaving himself back against the cushions. “ _No_ , I wasn’t being serious. If I were even remotely serious, you wouldn’t even be talking right now. God, sometimes I really gotta wonder if you have any brain cells knocking around in that noggin of yours. You sure shoving that hard drive in didn’t stamp them all out?”

Worries assuaged, Rhys reaches out with one brightly-coloured foot and swats Jack’s shin. “I have a perfectly normal number of brain cells, thank you. It’s not my fault your delivery for jokes is nearly indistinguishable from the one you use for threats.”

“Actions speak louder than words, sweetheart,” says Jack, returning it with a halfhearted foot-swat of his own. “Unless you’re floating around in the complete and total vacuum of space outside my window or currently en route to the aforementioned vacuum of space, I think you can safely consider all this in jest.”

Still rather flushed, Rhys meets Jack’s gaze head on. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, sir,” he says, indignant, tone low and liquid-smooth and lilting just this side of tart.

Jack sighs, taking a moment to rub his eyes and compose himself because this absolutely should _not_ be doing it for him, what the hell.

“Ohh-kay,” he says, trying his very best to ignore how his cock remains stubbornly half-hard against his thigh. “So, here’s what’s going to happen: I’m gonna do the nice thing and go grab you your abhorrent ice cream because I’m such a fantastic host. You are gonna keep your ass right here and continue watching whatever god-awful crap that is because you’re a guest or something. And when I get back, we’ll . . . I dunno. Keep watching, I guess? Or whatever else you want. Just as long as it’s not a dumb board game or whatever lame thing you and your absent best buddy are into these days. Sound good?”

Rhys’s smile softens at the edges. “Sure. Sounds good to me.”

“Great. Sit tight, babe. I’ll be back in a sec.”

It’s ridiculous because Jack doesn’t think he’s actually had to hide a boner since he was somewhere in his twenties, but he turns on his hip and rises to his feet, careful to keep his back to Rhys, and that’s—weird, actually, now that he thinks about it, because that’s not exactly a long-standing habit. Once you go through enough metaphorical backstabbings and literal assassination attempts, you learn not to leave your vulnerabilities out on full display like some kind of moron. That holds especially true when you’re going shieldless, which happens to be a rarity in and of itself thanks to the aforementioned backstabbings and assassination attempts.

And it occurs to Jack as he walks past the end of the couch with none of his custom-treated clothes or Hyperion-crafted gadgets—

 _The Vision_.

The cold-tight fist that slams under his sternum isn’t panic, not quite, but it’s close. He recognises that flighty frostbitten flare bolting down his backbone and that sudden feeling of _nakedness_ that has nothing at all to do with clothing or a lack thereof, and as he rounds the sofa with purpose, the marble chilled beneath his feet, he slows his steps, settles a hand over the top of the sofa, narrows on sight and sound—on golden stillness, endless black, distant starlight, sarcastic quips, familiar laughter.

Rhys lounges just past the central corner of the couch, attention fixed back on the giant screen. He grins at someone’s wry comment, engrossed, idly scratching his shoulder. Several arm lengths away, the Vision lies on its cushion, untouched, right where Jack had left it.

If Rhys were so inclined, it would be easy. It’s fully loaded, so all he’d have to do is lunge, release the safety, pull the trigger.

But he won’t, Jack thinks. He won’t because it’s been a few years, because there have been countless opportunities far better than this, and that’s saying something when Jack is currently bare and shieldless, old scars an open showcase for anyone to see.

This isn’t vulnerability, is it? Not really. Not when Rhys has already witnessed worlds worse.

Gathering in another grounding breath, Jack lifts his hand from the soft upholstery. He moves toward the kitchen step by step, crosses the chasm between. As he passes the granite-clad island and the sizable breakfast bar to take up residence beside the digi-replicator, he wills himself to pay that warning knell little mind.

It turns out that even with a heavily custom-modded machine, chocolate dill pickle is still not an available ice cream flavour. Which, honestly? Good. Gelato is another story, but the digi-rep demands a sample be scanned for _A CORRECT FLAVOUR PROFILE EXPERIENCE! THANK YOU, HANDSOME!_ , so Jack grabs a bottle of something amber and expensive out of the extensive liquor cabinet along the opposite bar because _wow_ is he ever going to need it, and then once he’s taken a detour for ice and soda and a stocky crystalline glass, he steps over to the ECHO device embedded within the fridge door and starts a JackDash order at two forty-two in the fucking morning because he’s Handsome goddamn Jack and he can do whatever the hell he wants, screw you.

The delivery bot is prompt (three minutes isn’t bad, all things considered) and although Jack does briefly contemplate putting several bullets through its circuit boards just for knowing this unbelievable purchase exists, he opts to keep his hand off the turret controls and just watch the thing through the camera feed in the foyer as it drops off a brilliant yellow plastic bag before the penthouse doors. The bot stiffly tips its newsboy cap—they’re wearing hats now?—at the camera before promptly pivoting its blocky torso and making its way back toward the elevator down the corridor.

When Jack returns with a whiskey bottle, a filled glass, a spoon, and a generous tub of very cold chocolate dill pickle gelato that he may or may not have let the digi-rep scan, he finds both Rhys and the Vision just as they were: still unmoved, still in their respective places.

That taut mass of metastasising tension quietly starts to ease.

Jack pads over and offers the tub and spoon with an outstretched hand. “Here you go. Unfortunately for you, it looks like chocolate dill pickle is too fancy for plain old ice cream, so you’re stuck with gelato. Hope that’s cool. If it’s not, feel free to get some yourself because I am _not_ about to go looking for it.”

“Nope, this is perfect,” says Rhys, accepting both with unabashed glee. “You’re the best!”

“Yeah?” Jack preens. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Rhys peels off the tub’s lid, but his eyes dwell solely on Jack. “Those look good on you.”

Jack nearly drops both the bottle and the glass.

“What, my underwear?” he manages around a stunned laugh—and in his defence, it’s a valid question. In retrospect, he probably should have put on a shirt or something.

“What? No! No, no, no. No, I meant, uh—I meant the scars,” Rhys amends, snapping his gaze down to the pale green and brown-flecked gelato in his lap. “I meant the scars, okay? They, uh. They look good. And you just—you said to tell you something you didn’t know, and I . . . I don’t know.” He winces. “Ugh. That sounded bad, didn’t it?”

Jack glances down at himself, at the faded network of diagonals and hatch marks and grooves and divots mantling his shoulders, his chest, his back, his fuzzy navel. He can’t say anyone’s really commented on that particular feature before (he supposes it helps when only select people have seen it), but he’s never been one to snub a compliment.

Absently, Jack wonders what cardiac arrest feels like—if it’s supposed to feel like a raucous drunkard stumbling around somewhere in his chest, knocking into every last rib and vital organ along the way.

“Ehh, I wouldn’t say bad,” he says, sinking back down into his original spot. “Little awkward, maybe, but not bad. I mean, they’re on me, so of course they’re gonna look good. I make everything look good, especially badass scars.” He brings the glass to his mouth and takes a drink. It smoulders and fizzes on the way down, but it feels good. Better. “Thanks for the confirmation, cupcake.”

“You’re . . . welcome, I guess,” Rhys murmurs, a little too sullen.

Jack takes another drink, this time for steel. He might not be the one going through a breakup, but he has a feeling he’s going to need it.

“All right. C’mon, get over here,” he says, and motions to his left side with his free hand. “I’m as ready as I’m ever gonna be for whatever trashy lowbrow marathon this is. What the hell are we watching again?”

“ _True House-Spouses of Dionysius_!” Rhys wastes no time in scooting over, tub, spoon, and lid in tow. He budges up right against Jack’s side, hip to thigh, and says, “This is only season five. There’s ten in total, and if rumours are true—which, let’s be real, of course they are; everything’s like clockwork at this point—an eleventh is currently in production. That means we’re probably gonna start seeing teasers in a few months. My bet is July. Vaughn says late June, but that’s way too soon with the schedules they tend to work with.”

Raising a judgemental eyebrow, Jack settles his arm around Rhys’s shoulders and looks over at the screen. The camera follows an impressive number of attractive people, all clad in posh outfits composed of the latest fashions as they partake in one hell of a shindig on what Jack recognises to be a beach somewhere on Aquator. One individual in particular snags the camera’s attention; they’re magnificent, spangled from head to toe with glittering jewellery and flowing fabrics, and they regard the viewer with molten-dark eyes and an inviting smile.

“That’s Zeke,” Rhys says with a flourish of his spoon. “They’re a top class model. I think they started when they were twenty? Twenty-one? Something like that. They’re filthy rich and their wife is a high-level executive at Vladof.”

Jack blinks. “Wow, that was fast. I can already feel my brain leaking out of my ears. Is this really what you do when you’re not working for me?”

“Hey, I play video games, too,” Rhys insists. “And, uh. You know. Read. Have bro nights with Vaughn. Code some side projects. Hack into secure areas on a time limit. The usual stuff.”

“Usual stuff, huh. Y’know, I’m not so sure that last one’s company approved. I hope you’re making the mature and responsible decision to strictly adhere to Hyperion corporate policy. I mean, you’re such a dedicated employee. There’s just no way you’d be up to no good, right?” Jack smirks and sips from his glass. “Are you up to no good, Rhysie?”

Rhys mirrors it. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

 _You bet I would_ curls up right on the tip of Jack’s tongue, poised and ready to spring, but he knocks it down with another gulp of soda and whiskey because, again, _breakup_ , emotional support and shit; what the hell are you doing, Jack? _God_.

“I think I already do,” he says, and it’s _heavy_ , which makes it sound somehow worse than the words he’d just swallowed. “Just be sure to watch the cameras, okay? There’s still a few months before we have that little get-together with Maliwan, but I wanna make sure things are flawless. You’d better be at your best.”

“Yes, sir.” Rhys offers a casual salute and winks.

Christ, it’s distracting how attractive that is.

Forcing himself to focus on anything but Rhys, Jack watches as the camera pans over dozens of glamorous socialites who have absolutely _nothing_ on him, and he can’t help but wonder if Rhys has ever been to a beach, let alone Aquator. The guy’s from Menoetius or Anchiale or something, old Atlas planets; Jack doubts he’s ever had the means.

Maybe he ought to drag Rhys somewhere when this quarter draws to a close. Get him out of his apartment, make him forget about this messy breakup crap. With a complexion like that, he’d probably burn the instant he stepped off the ship, but it would be worth it to dunk him once or twice under the waves (and then see him all wet and glistening with sun-soaked hair and a beaming smile afterward).

Jack considers framing it as some kind of pre-espionage break, but then something silver topped by an off shade of green approaches his periphery.

“Want a bite?”

Frowning, Jack narrows his eyes at the proffered spoonful. “I’d rather French kiss a light socket.”

Rhys shrugs. “Your loss,” he says, and pops it into his mouth.

“Yeah, horrible loss,” says Jack, pointedly turning his gaze back toward the screen. “Just terrible. I’m super torn up about it. I don’t know what I’m gonna do now that my lifelong dream of experiencing the incredibly refined and definitely not gross taste of chocolate dill pickle ice cream—sorry, _gelato_. My mistake—has been thoroughly crushed. I’m a broken man, Rhys. I don’t know how I’m supposed to go on.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find some way to cope.”

“I dunno, man. I’m pretty miserable. This stuff cuts deep.”

“Well, you could always make your own flavour to start the recovery process,” says Rhys, carving out another curl of gelato. “Plenty of Handsome Jack fans out there. If merchandise numbers from Sales last quarter are any indicator, an official Handsome Jack approved gelato flavour would probably rake in some decent cash.”

“Huh. You know, I actually kind of like the sound of that. Look at you, being all innovative! See, I knew there was a reason I kept you around.” Jack smiles into a healthy sip and gives Rhys’s shoulders an affectionate squeeze. “Let’s pitch it to the board later this week, huh? Give ‘em a nice spiel, wave a gun around a little, pause for effect. I bet they’ll eat it right up.”

Rhys laughs, a pleased hum around the spoon. “We’ll have them eating out of our hands.”

“Better watch the fingers, baby,” says Jack, drumming his own in a piano flutter along Rhys’s arm. “They’ll eat you up alive.”

“No, they won’t. Not if they know what’s good for them. I’ve got someone looking out for me.”

Jack’s heartbeat trips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You may have heard of him, actually. He’s a pretty popular hero.”

“ _Oh_. Oh, I see how it is. So what you’re telling me is you’re on a ‘personal protection’ basis with a whole lotta heroes.” Jack grips the tumbler tighter, holds it perfectly still. “Damn, and here I thought we were exclusive. Man, you really know how to crush a guy’s spirits, huh? I don’t go out of my way like this for just anybody, you know.”

“I know,” Rhys murmurs. “I appreciate it, Jack.”

“Eh, I don’t know about that. I think I’m sensing a little insincerity here.”

“Really. I mean that.” Rhys nudges him with his thigh. “I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, well.” Jack nudges back. “You know me. I’m all about self-sacrifice. It’s what heroes do.”

“I can tell. Looks like you’ve really done a lot on the whole self-sacrifice front.” Turning, Rhys peers down at the scattered lightning, the knitted grooves, the pale carvings, the bold hatch on Jack’s shoulder. “How’d you get all these, anyway?”

Jack could say all sorts of things. Things like “Duh, being a hero, of course!” or “See this one right here? Got that one opening a Vault” or “Pandora’s full of friggin’ psychopaths, babe; sometimes you just gotta take one for the team, y’know?” because they’re better and way more glorious and badass than the shameful, wretched truth.

Instead, Jack swallows another swig and says, “Trust me, sweetheart. You don’t wanna hear about it. It’s not the best story.”

And he half expects Rhys to press because even though the guy can be shrewd and sharp and cunning as all hell, he can also be the universe’s most exemplary idiot. His curiosity and stumbling mouth will undoubtedly get him into real trouble someday; Jack has already thwarted an interesting handful.

But Rhys only nods and concedes with a quiet “Okay” before dropping his head down over the hatched scar. His eyes drift back to the screen, attention captured like he’d never paused to ask.

And Jack knows this is just as stupid as the robo-hand thing, but that small, starving sliver of him can’t help but wonder—would Rhys react this way if he saw the other scar, too? Would he just . . . accept it as a part of Jack like he just accepted those faded childhood scars, like he already accepts the synthetic mask?

Would he accept it like he accepts literally everything else, even to his own detriment?

That sweet-bitter burn pours down Jack’s throat, pools and flares in his chest, a sun-hot sea of ease and delight and frustrating fondness, and he can sense this bleeding into dangerous territory, feel it dragging him out into the naked, vulnerable open where he doesn’t belong, where he _can’t_ belong, not anymore, but it—

It feels good. It feels _good_. It feels achingly good, achingly perfect, tempting in all the ways those erstwhile shades were at the zenith of their youthful, blinding glory, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to let this go. If he loosens his grip, panic and loss drown out the euphoria; nothing ever stays. But if he tightens it, the shrapnel digs ever deeper. It makes letting go bloody. It makes it agonising. Makes it _worse_.

But he’ll allow himself this. Just this once. Just for tonight. He’ll sit here and exist and feel at Rhys’s side, even if he knows what comes next—because on some deep level, Rhys _needs_ this, needs Jack’s presence and closeness, and that isn’t something Jack can bring himself to deny.

So Jack holds an arm around Rhys as he scoops away at a tub of heinously flavoured gelato, slowly nursing drink after drink after drink. He watches Rhys flip between downright terrible reality shows and ridiculous sitcom reruns and he criticises their cheesy premises and plothole-riddled storylines with gusto. He laughs when Rhys recites dramatic dialogue from memory—“You’re the biggest nerd this side of the galaxy, you know that?” he says, but it’s soft, mild, mulled with liquor; it isn’t disparaging at all.

And as time lapses from 0300 to 0400 and into 0500, Jack lets himself soak in that warm alluvion as it sweeps at his edges, persuades in its soothing susurrations, weathers him sharp by sharp. He basks in that easy comfort despite the caged caveats keening into coarseness somewhere beneath his skull because it has been such a long, long time, and he’d thought it lost and numb, deadened like the branded nerves arcing across his face.

“You don’t need ‘em, you know,” Jack murmurs, willing himself to stare at the bickering actors onscreen. “Whoever it was. You don’t—you don’t need ‘em. You know that, right? You gotta know that. You’d be stupid if you didn’t.”

The reply is low, hushed, hesitant, breathed across scars and skin: “I know.”

Jack tightens his grip on the glass and ignores the pirouetting shiver. “Good. That’s—that’s good. ‘Cause Handsome Jack ain’t exactly in the business of keeping idiots around, and man, believe me, it would be a real shame to let you go.” He takes another burning swallow. “Ugh. The thought of trying to train some fresh-faced kid makes me wanna shoot something.”

“You’re saying that like you didn’t call me a fresh-faced kid,” says Rhys.

“Ehh, yeah, but that’s—that’s different. A newbie would just be . . . whoever. A nobody. Youngblood straight outta college or something. Maybe some bottom-feeder who can maintain basic brain function and read a frickin’ calendar. No experience, no feel for the flow, won’t stop with the questions, can’t read a freaking room. You, though?” Ice cubes clink together as Jack gestures with his glass. “I knew you’d be worth it.”

“Wow.” Rhys huffs beside him. “Laying the pity on a little thick, don’t you think?”

“Pff. What? Pity? Is that what you think this is?” Jack laughs, swirling the remaining liquid in lazy circles. “Please. Running a company doesn’t allow for things like pity. This shit’s cutthroat, baby. You know that, I know that, everybody knows that, and the morons who don’t are in for a very fun surprise. Trust me, this ain’t pity. You just learn to value certain things when it comes to picking and choosing peons. Y’know, things like competence, brains, ambition, initiative. That goes double for people you want on your team. Now, normally HR handles that kind of stuff because Handsome Jack doesn’t do menial work, but _you_ —you fast tracked.”

A reluctant laugh. “Yeah, I guess. If you wanna call it that.”

“Well, I dunno what else you’d call hacking into my office.”

“Hey, that was—”

“Definitely not an accident.”

“. . . a misunderstanding?”

Jack can’t stop himself. He tears his eyes away from the boring as hell sitcom and looks at Rhys—

Only to be pinioned in place.

All traces of despondency have dissipated: no deepened laugh lines, no prominent creases, no downturned mouth. Hopeful expectance offers smoother contours in its place. Warm brown and cool ECHO-blue still on Jack like he’s their natural place of rest, replete with affection and ease, and they’re familiar, gorgeous, enthralling, just as they’ve always been.

Something kicks against Jack’s sternum, brutal and blindingly bright.

“Okay, fine, a misunderstanding,” he concedes, because if he doesn’t finish this thought within the next five seconds, it’s going to sprint away from him when he—god, when he falls headfirst into Rhys’s eyes or something. “I personally wouldn’t call it a misunderstanding, but whatever. The point is, the moment we had that little ‘misunderstanding’, I knew you were gonna be the right choice. Ah-ah-ah!” he chides, watching Rhys’s mouth part in protest. “Nope, no arguments. I’ve got an eye for these things. I know potential when I see it. It’s one of my many, many, _many_ talents.”

Rhys succumbs to a chuckle, amused in the same way he always is, and something uncurls in Jack like a leaf desperately craning its open face toward the sun: hungry, eager, willing.

Because this is how things should be, Jack thinks as he tips the tumbler back. Rhys should be laughing and enjoying himself. Rhys should be comfortable and relaxed. Rhys should be sitting here with his head on Jack’s shoulder, safe and closely kept. To be anywhere else, with anyone else—it would be wrong. Hell, it’s already been wrong. Everything’s been wrong for months.

But this is a chance correction, subtle recalibration, a shift in the alignment, and— _god_ , Jack aches to preserve it.

He takes the next drink even slower. He savours it, spaces it out over the next hour, lets the fizz and fire scald his tongue. Rhys lapses into tranquil silence beside him, and Jack follows willingly. The knee-jerk urge to command the atmosphere and take centre stage falls somewhere to the wayside; the trials and tribulations of comically terrible people rise and swell to fill all the vacant spaces, and Jack lets them, that foreign coal of calm contentment smouldering deep within his rib cage.

When the ice has all but melted and the amber is liquid-pale, Jack pulls his attention from the screen only to find Rhys fast asleep on his shoulder.

Jack snorts. “You would.”

He knocks back one final swallow and sets the empty tumbler down in the cup holder pulled out beside the Vision. Then, after a moment of idly staring at yet another show he couldn’t care less about, Jack leans over Rhys and hits the power on the remote. The voices cut, the screen dims to black, and the living room is left in the low warmth of auric lights.

Rhys courts a gilded lustre in their muted glow. It suits him well.

“Hey.” Jack nudges him with his thigh. “Hey, c’mon. Wake up, kitten. You’re not sleeping on the couch like this. I’m also gonna need my arm back. Now, preferably.”

Rhys argues with an incoherent mumble before further burying himself into Jack’s side.

“Mmm, sorry, it’s gotta come with. We can’t all have super sexy robo-arms designed by total geniuses we can disengage whenever it’s convenient.” He nudges Rhys again, this time with a little more force. “Hey. C’mon, Rhysie. Time to get up. Rise and shine.”

When Rhys doesn’t move, Jack tilts his head back and stares up at the black-gold patterned ceiling. He really should have seen this coming, he thinks. Keeping Rhys around, letting him stay. He’s honestly not sure what he expected. Hadn’t this exact same scenario played out in one of those stupid sitcoms?

Heaving a begrudging sigh, Jack resigns himself to what he now assumes must have been the inevitable.

With one arm still tucked around Rhys, Jack hooks the other under the bends of Rhys’s knees and lifts. Gathering him up is easy; Rhys is leggy and lanky but light (a new arm makes all the difference) and seems to prefer chests over shoulders when it comes to pillows (a little tidbit Jack definitely does not file away for later), fitting in Jack’s arms like he was built to specification, every last dimension utterly immaculate, a perfect and solid warmth just for Jack.

As Jack rises to his feet, he spares the Vision a fleeting glance. He then walks right past it, brushing by a spoon and an empty gelato tub and a tall whiskey bottle that probably contains way less alcohol than it should.

Keeping Rhys safely cradled against his chest, Jack carries him across the living room. He hangs a left and heads down one of the long, darkened corridors. His steps are slow, unhurried, purposeful; his bare feet coast along the gold-veined marble, heel-to-toe, heel-to-toe, steeped in fluid movement. The delicate stillness of the penthouse shatters and reforms shard by shard in his wake.

The bedroom is a refuge for shadows and gloam. Jack doesn’t bother to turn on the light when he slips inside; the room is spacious, minimalist, and the carpets are inlaid, set—there’s nothing to trip on. Ahead, a wall-length window of pinprick stars and inkblot nebulae backdrops the bed, which remains just as Jack had left it: plush yellow duvet wrenched aside, luxurious sheets dishevelled and tossed in haste.

Slowly, gently, Jack lowers Rhys into the abandoned hollow. There, Rhys unfolds like he belongs there: he nestles his cheek into the pillow, lissom limbs stretching in search of space and warmth. Jack tugs up the blankets, smooths them, tucks them under Rhys’s chin. The weight appears placating; Rhys settles in with a noncommittal noise and stills.

Satisfied, Jack turns to the bedside table and squints at the dim blue display. Thin numbers read 0605—much too late, far too early. He leans down, taps at the screen, disables all alarms. He casts the window a glance, considering, and then swipes its opacity up to full. The starlight obediently fades, swallowed by a pitch-black penumbra as it drifts across.

When Jack finally straightens, he does so with the intent to leave.

His legs, he finds, are loath to obey.

The light that remains is meagre, winnowed down to the bedside display and the thin blade of ethereal paleness cutting in from the open door, but it’s enough. Rhys lies there, shrouded in shades and shadows and softness, and Jack can still discern the familiar lineaments of his face.

Rhys looks different. And it’s not just the hair—though that’s a part of it, too; Jack has only ever seen it coiffed.

It’s just . . . this. Being in Jack’s penthouse. Being in Jack’s bedroom, Jack’s bed. It’s being in pyjamas and talking about nothing, not even work, the sole thing that binds them together and makes them a single, cohesive whole. It’s being near in a way that isn’t physical, that isn’t a hand pressed into the slope of a spine. It’s being relaxed, unguarded, willing to leave your back bare and your hand empty.

It’s everything. It’s the past few years squished together and pressed into one final product, cleaned and polished and boxed up in glossy packaging so sleek and beautiful it would be a crime not to admire, and it makes Rhys look gentle.

Of course, Jack knows that when push comes to shove, Rhys can be anything but gentle. He wouldn’t be at Jack’s side if he weren’t capable or ambitious or any of those other valuable traits. But this seems . . . private, somehow. Like Jack shouldn’t be bearing witness.

Except he is.

And he wants to. Madly.

With a cautious hand, Jack brushes the hair from Rhys’s face. It’s wonderfully soft against his fingerprints. Jack has to resist the urge to comb his fingers through, to drag his nails along Rhys’s scalp, and he withdraws before it can twist into something dangerous like smoothing past temples and cheekbones until he’s cupping the inviting warmth of Rhys’s face.

Would it be, though? he wonders absently. Dangerous. Before, he would’ve given that a very emphatic ‘hell yes’ simply because even if you’ve been in a relationship for three years, regardless of whether or not that relationship has been strictly professional, that doesn’t mean someone won’t be waiting with a knife that’s freshly whetted and eager for a spill when its wielder has already tasted beads in the aftermath of countless witnessed injuries.

Everyone has a price. Everyone _._ It’s never a matter of ‘if’; it’s a matter of ‘when’.

Only . . . for some unfathomable reason, ‘everyone’ seems to just not include Rhys. Which means the ‘when’ has long since alchemised into an ‘if’, and the ‘if’ is currently undergoing a gradual, withering metamorphosis before Jack’s very eyes, and he doesn’t know if anything else is supposed to emerge when the husks slough free.

But maybe it wouldn’t be dangerous, he thinks. Maybe it would be . . . good. Like earlier. Like now. Tranquil, easy, open, drifting along a wavelength where that warning call doesn’t clamour quite so harshly through his bones. And he knows it’s stupid, but maybe—

Maybe every night would be like tonight. Maybe he could convince himself to recline into this slower softness, hold it lightly, relish its presence without crushing too tightly. Maybe there would be thousands upon thousands of tonights, each as good as the last, and they’d string long into the future, tenderly entwining amongst themselves until they met their severed ends. And maybe from there, borne from blood and sweat and mutual ambition, something better and grander would await.

That’s too wistful, isn’t it? Too naïve. He knows Handsome Jack’s answer with resounding clarity: that’s the exact line of thinking that left him betrayed and beaten, and he can’t deal with that again, he can’t; there’s no room, no capacity; there’s already so many plans and schemes and ideas and wants and needs and emotions and _anger_ , and god, he’s full to bursting.

But John’s answer echoes back with equal, unequivocal force: _You already let him in a while ago, pal. Like, a_ long _while ago. And just look at where you are now: still awesome, still handsome, and still on top. I mean, he makes all this bullshit easier, right? Why the hell do you wanna ruin something so obviously good?_

Jack stands there, immobile, gripped by an unseen compulsion that burrows through muscle and tissue and synapse and nerve right down to aching hollows and reddened marrow. And when riptide thoughts of pulling back the covers and joining Rhys come surging through those hairline fissures, Jack wants to flee, clear the epicentre, head for higher ground. He tells himself they are nothing but an unfortunate alcoholic corollary—because they are. They have to be.

Why else would he ever consider waking up with company and a bare face?

Jack reaches out, and as he brushes the backs of his fingers along Rhys’s cheek, he wonders if such an extraordinary collision is meant to be so impossibly, silently still.

It’s another few moments before Jack can persuade himself to walk away. However, rather than heading straight for the door, he paths over to the walk-in closet instead. He slides inside, sidles between the hangers and drawers, throws on a Hyperion tee, socks, and a comfortable pair of jeans. The lack of light is inconvenient, but he knows his next target by touch, and when his fingerprints find a long, rumpled sleeve of cotton, fabric worn and soft with age, he tugs the sweater down and pulls it on.

Dressed and brimming with fresh focus, Jack crosses the room without a sound. He snags his reading glasses from the bedside table, folds them over the neck of his sweater. Then he grabs his wristwatch, his signet ring, his holster, and swiftly slides them on. The hexagonal pocket watch follows suit; hooked to a belt loop, its chain half-dangles from a frontward pocket.

Before he makes for the door, Jack pauses to look at Rhys. His gaze traces the shadow-pooled angles of Rhys’s face, the ruffled sweeps of his hair, the swathed lines of his body, and he wonders when the hell he’d gotten so goddamned used to this. To everything. To another person.

To Rhys.

“The hell are you doing to me,” he whispers into the quiet dark.

After Jack shuts the door, he ventures back into the living room, retrieves the Vision from the sofa, and slots it back into its rightful place. He then breaks away and lopes down another lengthy corridor, opposite the first. The dimmed sconces watch him from on high with fire-gold incandescence. Shadows meld into his softened footsteps, lucent veins spiderwebbing their way beneath his feet as he ghosts by opulent rooms and lavish artworks and smiling sculptures that stare and stare and stare.

Halfway down, Jack hangs a right and turns into an open doorway. This office is smaller than his official one and lacks the trophy case and all the cool statues and waterfalls, but it still has the essentials: sleek desk, comfy chair, custom-built rig, a few holo-screens, fun peripherals, great view. More than enough to allow for the occasional midnight brainstorm or a dark-thirty research stint that happens to feature one very lucky and soon-to-be-expired individual.

Jack sits back before the endless stretch of star-flecked space and watches the holo-screens spark to life. The displays flicker through various diagnostics on system boot, and while he waits, he grabs the keyboard, brings it onto his lap with a flourish, impatiently taps his fingers over the keys.

Just as the Hyperion logo flashes across the main display and a prompt for credentials takes its place, it occurs to Jack that he’s actually going to have a guest for breakfast.

“If that loser asks for chocolate dill pickle pancakes, I’m gonna curbstomp him into next week,” he mutters.

He briefly considers sending Rhys a message to tell him just that (Subject: PLEASE choose blueberry or chocolate chip like a normal person for crying out loud), but he thinks better of it. He has no idea if Rhys muted his notifications. Probably not, knowing him. It’s one of the reasons he’s always so prompt in responding to Jack’s messages, regardless of the time of day.

Maybe Jack will just write it on a sticky note and leave it on Rhys’s forehead instead. That would be pretty funny, right? Especially with bedhead. Rhys snoring, all passed out, hair all over the place, a bright yellow square with ‘Chocolate dill pickle anything is NOT appropriate breakfast fare’ stuck to his face. He’d look hilarious.

Jack knows it wouldn’t last, though. The moment Rhys woke up, he’d peel the thing off. He’d squint at it, roll his eyes, crumple it up and toss it the second he found a trash can. He’d probably look better afterward, though. Fond eyes, drowsy smile, lounging in the centre of Jack’s massive bed. Arms crossed behind his head, maybe; something that lets his shirt ride up, lets Jack see his trim waist, his soft belly, his jutting hipbones.

What if . . . Jack doubles back in an hour or so. You know, just to check in. See how Rhys is doing. Couldn’t hurt, right? Jack’s nice like that. He takes care of his team, and since Rhys is a part of that team, he’s going to make sure Rhys’s needs are met. The guy’s going through a bad breakup, after all. It’s the least Jack can do.

But, luckily for Rhys, Jack has always been an overachiever. Heroes go above and beyond, adhere to the highest standards, fulfill their obligations to the max. You never hear about some grand paragon half-assing a rescue or leaving a rampaging monster half-dead or allowing brainless mouth-breathers to get away with murder. Or, in this particular case, get away with being a fickle heartbreaker. That’s just not how it’s done.

As he logs in with something a little less obvious than his _~HJack69~_ superuser, Jack decides that breakfast choices, check-ins, and sticky notes can wait. Rhys will be asleep for several hours at the very least, which leaves plenty of time to tend to a far more pressing matter—namely, the one that brought him to Jack’s penthouse in the first place. Rhys may be taken care of, but that’s the bare minimum. If you really want to be a hero, being thorough is important.

And Jack? Well, he has every intention of being thorough.

After all, there is still a very special _whoever_ to track.

Grinning, Jack dons his glasses and gets to work.


End file.
